The Portrait of Mrs. Charbuque

by Jeffrey Ford

  “The next morning when the sun rose, the shadow was livid that the young man had spent so much time with the girl. All day the dark form whispered into Po’s ears reasons why Ami was no good for him. After lunch Shathu went to spy on her but found that she was an even-tempered, loving person to one and all. Still, he flew back to the young man and told him lies about her. Our hero refused to listen, and the shadow went mad with envy.

  “That night Ami sang in front of a huge audience and was so admired, the spectators called for another song and another. The girl kept singing, and by the time her voice finally gave out, it was too late to begin The Boon Companion. Po was not concerned, even though Shathu whispered that the singer would ruin them. ‘She is real,’ said the young man, ‘and we are not. It is only right that the crowd appreciate her more.’

  “Later that evening after a walk through the city in the dark, the two new lovers came to a halt beneath a street lamp. As Po kissed the girl with the golden voice, he did not notice that projected on the wall behind them his shadow held hers by the throat. The kiss was long, exceedingly long. And it went on too long, for Po felt Ami go limp in his arms. When he pulled her away from him, he discovered she was dead.”

  CALVARY CHURCH

  PO TURNED on his own shadow and tried to avenge Ami’s death, but how could he? Shathu laughed as the young man smashed his bleeding fists against the brick wall. A passerby saw Po acting violently and the body of the young woman lying dead at his feet and screamed ‘Murder!’ And our hero fled into the night.

  “The only place he could think to go for help that was dark enough to escape his shadow was the confessional booth at the local church. There he sat, waiting for the priest to appear on the other side of the small screen. Finally the priest came in the morning and blessed the young man, asking him what were his sins. Po told the old priest everything. The priest told him, ‘I cannot help you, for you are possessed by an evil entity. You must travel up Ossinto Mountain and find the saint who lives in the caves there. It is said that she has the power to face down such wickedness.’

  “Po spent the rest of the day hiding in the confessional. When night fell, he gathered supplies quickly and fled the city before daybreak when he would certainly be discovered and arrested for Ami’s murder. Whenever he passed through an area of light, he could hear Shathu laughing at him. When the sun rose and Po had reached the base of the mountain, the shadow’s laughter and insults raged constantly.

  “Although he was weary from lack of sleep, the young man began the ascent. By afternoon he stood in the snow outside the saint’s cave and called to her. The saint, whose heart was always open to pleas for help from those who sought her, emerged from the cave. She was radiant, dressed in a blue cloak the color of the sky. Light emanated from and encircled her head of long blond hair.

  “While Shathu berated him, Po recounted his tale for the saint. When he had finished speaking, the saint told him, ‘Don’t you see, my poor friend, that you are troubled? This shadow is merely an invention of your mind. I know you didn’t mean to, but it was really you who killed Ami. It was your jealousy of her beautiful voice, a voice you had desired since childhood.’

  “Po was horrified to hear the words of the saint. He could not bear the fact that he had strangled Ami. Without another word, he walked to the edge of the precipice and leaped to his death. The saint felt great sorrow at the young man’s decision, for she knew she could have saved his soul. Then, as she was about to return to her cave, she noticed that Po’s shadow was still standing before her.

  “Shathu came forward and wrapped his long dark fingers around the shadow neck of the saint. The saint, feeling her life leaving her, called on her savior and was filled with a great cosmic energy. She glowed like a star, attempting to burn away the existence of the murderous dark form. When Shathu was on the verge of incineration, he called on his savior, and his pervasive gloom increased. A terrible battle between light and dark ensued.

  “In the last rays of the setting sun, Shathu was victorious in extinguishing the flame that was the saint. Her body dropped dead upon the ground as darkness prevailed. Only two small sparks of her sacred fire escaped. They flew into the night sky, turning into brilliant snowflakes that fell on the town below.”

  Here, Mrs. Charbuque went silent. Some minutes passed before I realized she was finished. Although she said nothing more, I bid her a good day and left without having to be told to go by Watkin.

  I found it disconcerting when I left the beach house and stepped outside. Where I was used to leaving Mrs. Charbuque and stepping out into a crowded street, with the noise of traffic and the sight of huge buildings crowding out the view of the sky, I found instead sand dunes and sea grass and utter tranquillity. I shook my head to get my bearings as I took the stone path and began to ascend the dunes. By the time I was traveling through the hills of sand back toward the ferry dock, I was laughing out loud.

  All I could imagine was some parent reading the tale of “The Boon Companion” to his child at night, using that sweet affected voice grown-ups sometimes use when addressing the young. If that story actually appeared in the book of fairy tales, I swore on the spot I would eat my hat. I made a mental note to check the volume, which was now in my possession, when I returned to the city.

  If she had not acquired the story from the book, which was more than likely, then from where? And what was her reason for telling it? Of course, there were bothersome parallels to her own fractured autobiography, but as for absolute connections, they were as elusive as real understanding often is in dreams. For now, I crumpled the thing up in my thoughts and tossed it out onto the sea wind, for I did not need its confusing symbolism mucking up the vision I intended to paint. “A laudable attempt to bewilder me, Luciere,” I said to a seagull whizzing by overhead, “but I have transcended your insane shenanigans.”

  The following morning I woke before the sunrise and left the La Grange, carrying my paint box, my easel, and, rolled up in three swaths of canvas, the pieces needed to construct a stretcher. I didn’t want anyone to know where I was going, so I did not bother to arrange for a ride. Luckily even the night clerk had dozed off and was leaning back in his chair, snoring. I made my way to the Montauk Highway and headed east as Father Loomis had instructed. My baggage was cumbersome—the paint box alone, which held everything I would need, weighed at least thirty pounds—but I had lugged just such supplies around so often in my youth that my now much older body finally recalled the task and settled down to it.

  Calvary Church was not large, but it was beautifully constructed with a small steeple and tall doors. Panes of stained glass depicting biblical scenes lined the length of the structure, while the pews and altar were made from highly polished cherrywood. As the priest had said, the doors were unlocked. I entered the dim space. The sun was just then rising, and it set the colorful scenes along the right side of the church to glowing. An aroma of incense lingered in the dreary atmosphere. My mother had made me attend services when I was a child, and I remembered that distinctive smell of mystery, of ritual, of death. It was Sabott who turned me away from incorporated religion by saying, “At the heart of the ancient inception of it lie the quintessential questions and answers, but the present-day dogma it comes wrapped in can only weigh an artist down.”

  I strode up the aisle toward the altar and called out the name of Father Loomis. A few minutes later, he appeared from an inconspicuous doorway to the left of the altar. “Piambo,” he said, smiling.

  “I’m sorry to come so early, Father, but as I told you, I am trying to retain my privacy and needed to escape the inn before the other guests had risen.”

  “No problem, my boy. I rise every day with the sun. Come, I’ll show you your studio.”

  The old carriage house out behind the church was an ideal spot, a large empty space with plenty of light. A good blaze in the fireplace would effectively heat the area against the November temperatures, which of late had been rather bitter until late into
the morning. Luckily there was also a cot in the corner that I could rest on and a small table. The old man showed me where the woodpile was and told me not to hesitate to call him if I needed anything. He invited me to join him in the church for a glass of wine when I was done working in the evening, and then he left me to my own devices.

  After building a nice fire, I set to work immediately, setting up my easel and unrolling the canvas. On the small tabletop, I began constructing a stretcher from the lengths of wood I had carried from New York. This was one aspect of the job I could do in my sleep. Although I carried a small one in my box, I hardly ever even used a square to check the angles. Once the basic frame was completed, I stretched the canvas over it and cut it to fit with a razor. In mere minutes I had the material folded and nailed in place and had hammered the keys into the back corners to keep the painting surface as taut as possible. It was no later than nine o’clock by the time the rectangle was primed and drying on the easel. I sat down on the cot and smoked a cigarette, feeling very pleased with my work and my new studio.

  While the canvas dried, I set to remaking a sketch of the figure of Mrs. Charbuque. The image came clearly to me, and the charcoal pencil moved over the paper with the ease of flowing water. The drawing did not take very long to complete. When it was finished, I stared at it for longer than it took to create it. I knew then that I needed some time to consider it more fully. Putting on my coat and hat, I left the studio and took the path that led back through the trees toward the bay.

  At the water’s edge, I found a section of a tree trunk, driftwood that had long before rolled ashore and dried in the sun. There I sat for hours in the cold, staring out across the bay. I found it surprising that the mystery of Mrs. Charbuque, the constant threat of her husband, and the enigmatic part that Watkin played in the whole charade no longer interested me much. In the sublime presence of Nature, I was able to circumvent that sideshow and find the elements of my life I cared most about. I spent a good bit of time remembering Shenz and Sabott, and even longer thinking about Samantha. Now the commission had become simply a professional arrangement that I would execute in my usual accomplished manner. Damn the money and damn my artistic insecurities. I realized it was not worth bartering away the present for a future no one could foretell.

  HER BEWITCHING FORM

  FOR THE first time in weeks, I worked with intensity and clarity, approaching the portrait of Mrs. Charbuque with utter poise. I lost myself in the process, executing every painterly technique with the greatest unconsidered facility. With each pale explosion of color on canvas, her bewitching form slowly cohered as it had out of smoke in my dream of Sabott. Even though I followed the same methods I had during my first attempt, it all seemed new to me, startlingly fresh and alive. Nothing was mundane, from the depiction of the fingernails to the pupils of her eyes. Every strand of hair was rendered with a genuine sense of joy and accomplishment.

  My days started early, before sunrise. Each morning I struck out in a different direction to throw off any interested onlookers, but I always doubled back and made for the church. After stoking the fire, I would smoke a cigarette and begin work. Usually around ten o’clock Father Loomis would come to visit and see how I was getting on. He brought coffee, and we would sit and chat for a half hour or so. He was thrilled to witness each day’s progress and offered just the right amount of praise and speculation. I would work for a few more hours until lunch, when I walked to the bay and ate the sandwiches prepared for me the previous night by the cook at the inn. And when day was done, and the sun was leaving the sky, I would go over to the church, sit in the sacristy with Loomis, and have a glass of wine.

  The schedule suited me perfectly and pushed the thought of trouble from my mind. On the third day of the week, though, when I returned to the La Grange in the evening for dinner, the clerk told me that two gentlemen had called that day looking for me. When I asked him to describe them, he said, “The first, this morning, was blind. An older fellow. Very polite.”

  “Did he leave a message?” I asked.

  “He said he would return to speak to you.”

  “And the second?” I asked, with a feeling of dread.

  “A younger man, perhaps your age, with a mustache. He seemed rather annoyed when I told him I could divulge neither your room number nor your whereabouts.”

  “Listen carefully,” I told him. “If the younger man returns, do not accept anything from him. Tell the rest of the staff too. He might be dangerous.”

  That night I slept uneasily, knowing that Charbuque was in town, expecting him to emerge from the shadows of my room at any minute. I also wondered why Watkin was looking for me and why he had not left a message. My thoughts turned to the portrait, and I resolved to take steps to protect it while I was away from it.

  The next morning I left my bed even earlier than usual and went out into the cold predawn air. I cannot describe my relief upon reaching the carriage house studio and finding the painting exactly as I had left it the previous night. That morning, while we shared our morning coffee, I asked Father Loomis if he would store the piece in the church at night.

  He was more than happy to comply and told me I could hide it behind the altar each night before taking my leave. That evening as we sat having our wine, he told me he was thinking of having an altarpiece painted depicting stories from the Bible. “A beautiful backdrop to the Mass” was how he put it. We discussed what subject matter would be appropriate. He was leaning toward the story of Jonah, but I told him he should choose a scene from Genesis, because creation was the only proof of God’s existence in the world. He shook his head, called me a heathen, and refilled my glass.

  That night on my return to the inn there were neither messages nor tales of visitors to distress me. I slept soundly with no interruptions. But the next morning, after starting the fire in the studio, I came to the church to retrieve the portrait and to my horror found that it was missing.

  “Loomis!” I yelled.

  “Easy, Piambo,” I heard behind me.

  I turned and saw the priest standing in his robe, holding the picture.

  “What are you doing, Father?” I asked.

  “Well, my son, last night there was a visitor to your studio. I woke sometime after two and heard a voice coming from the carriage house. I loaded my shotgun and went out back there to see what was about. There was no light other than the moon, but I could make out a shadowy form pacing back and forth in your studio. Whoever this intruder was, he was wild with anger, cursing like the devil. I aimed the shotgun in the air and fired, and he took off into the trees. I yelled that I was going to summon the police. I realized he must be looking for the painting, and so when I returned to the church I took it from behind the altar and hid it under my covers with me to protect it. Of course, the gun lay on the other side of me.”

  “I can’t thank you enough,” I said to him.

  “It was nothing,” he said. “Just don’t tell anyone I spent the night with a naked woman in my bed.”

  “I’ll take the painting with me when I leave tonight,” I said. “I don’t want to put you in any danger.”

  “Nonsense,” said Loomis. “I’ll keep it safe here for you. I don’t usually like to lock the doors, but once they are secured, one would need a battering ram to force them open. It will be safer here than at the inn.”

  I reluctantly agreed, knowing Charbuque was as slippery a character as the Boon Companion in his wife’s incongruous story, but the priest had made a good point and seemed honestly committed to the task.

  The night of the fourth day, upon returning to the inn, I sat down and wrote two letters. One was to Sills, alerting him that Charbuque was no longer in the city but now roaming around Long Island. I wrote the second letter to Samantha and told her where I was and the whole story of my stay on the south shore. I told her I loved her, and asked her to come back to me. I wrote that if I did not hear from her, I might stay on to paint landscapes for a time.

  On the
morning of the sixth day of my final week in the orbit of Mrs. Charbuque, I finished the painting. One last brush stroke to adjust the expression at the corner of the lips, and then I stood back, realizing it needed nothing more. I lay the brush and palette down on the small table and staggered back to sit on the cot. She was exactly the way I had pictured her in my mind. The sight of it, the sense of completion, brought me to tears. It was by far the best painting I had ever made. Now that it was finished, I felt empty. I had worked so diligently for so long; the abrupt cessation disconcerted me.

  I varnished the canvas, only once, to bring out the glow of the solitary figure without making the surface reflective. After completing this last step, I lay down on the cot and slept for the remainder of the day. That night I did not return to the La Grange but stoked the fire in the studio and stayed there, standing guard until morning.

  Finally, after a night spent staring into the fireplace, conjuring ghosts and scenes of my past in the flames and watching them dance about in the hearth like moving figures on a magical painting, I saw the sun show itself. The portrait was dry enough. I put it in a cheap frame I had bought in town, and wrapped it in paper. After the paper, I wrapped it again in oilskin to protect it from the weather and tied the whole package securely with twine.

  I then returned to the inn, ate breakfast with the package sitting next to me in the dining room, and afterward went to my room to rest for an hour or two. At noon I arose, put on my coat and hat, and went down to arrange for a carriage to take me to the docks. While I was standing in the lobby waiting for my ride, I happened to notice a copy of the late edition of the Babylon Gazette lying on the counter. The headline fairly screamed at me: LOCAL WOMAN DIES, CRYING TEARS OF BLOOD. Beneath that, in slightly smaller type, ran: MYSTERIOUS DISEASE PLAGUING NEW YORK CITY STRIKES LONG ISLAND.